


I Need a Hero

by AnneCumberbatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Crack Treated Seriously, First Kiss, Happy Sherlock, John is a Mess, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock is a whump baby, Whump, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneCumberbatch/pseuds/AnneCumberbatch
Summary: John is a whump baby and he's really sad about it.But, do you know who is More of a whump baby?Sherlock. But he's definitely not as sad about it. Even though he probably should be?What a mystery.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 28
Kudos: 79





	I Need a Hero

**Author's Note:**

> For Sherlock and John, my ridiculous whump babies.  
> Inspired by a hilarious conversation simplyclockwork and I had one afternoon.  
> Disclaimer: I don't think I'm very funny. This is my first crack fic. Potentially my first and last.

John stood in the middle of Baker Street, his bare feet resting against the worn carpet. His hand clenching and unclenching by his leg. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. His entire life had crumpled yet again. That’s what it had always done.

From the moment he was born, his life had been one wreck after another. From his parents being them to dealing with Harry to his time serving in the army to nearly dying from being shot to finding Sherlock and _losing him_ and then suddenly having him again. Then, going through everything with Mary and Eurus. Not to mention the nightmares or the manipulations or being numerously threatened, kidnapped, beaten up, shot, drugged, blown up, nearly set on fire, and dumped into a well to drown. His life was a mess. He was a mess.

His body was tired, and his mind couldn’t comprehend thinking beyond the simplest tasks. The world was grey and hazy and there was a tightness in his chest he couldn’t unravel. He felt weak. Cripplingly weak. He was barely able to pull himself together to make a cup of tea, let alone take care of his daughter. He didn’t know how to gather the strength and continue for Rosie, let alone himself.

Suddenly, Sherlock swept into the living room, fresh from completing a case, his cheeks rosy and his eyes bright.

As the light from the windows landed on him, illuminating the sharp curvature of his cheekbones, the deep green blue of his eyes, the smart curling of his hair and the contrasting smooth sharp lines of his clothing, he smiled and his long coat swirling around him in the doorway like a cape. He stood in the doorway, his eyes meeting John’s and John felt his knees weaken at the sight of the beautiful strong man before him.

He realised he didn’t need to gather the strength to continue his own. For as horrific as his own life had been, Sherlock’s had been…. Inconceivably worse. The man had grown up prodded by psychologists and ridiculed by his peers and teachers. His childhood friend had been murdered by his psychopath of a sister who was so awful he literally erased her from his memories. His brother had sought to interfere with every aspect of his life. He had overdosed multiple times from his drug addiction. He was called a freak by his work associates. He was almost killed by a serial killer, strangled, shot at by circus assassins, strangled again, and nearly killed repeatedly in their fight with Moriarty as well as having his entire reputation torn to the ground. That fiasco resulted in him faking his own death and fleeing the country for _years_. He then underwent horrendous torture only to return and undergo physical and verbal abuse by the man who was supposed to be his best friend. He returned to drugs, got shot by his best friend’s wife, and his heart stopped multiple times. He was assaulted in a hospital bed, he shot someone, and then he overdosed _again_ when he was being sent away to certain death by his own brother. He was nearly drowned in a fight with an assassin, he got beaten brutally by his best friend after doing more drugs, then he was nearly murdered in a hospital bed. He was horribly rejected by his best friend on top of that and shoved into the trunk of a car by his landlady/surrogate mother. He was nearly blown up by his sister. Then, strangled and attacked by his sister. And his childhood home was blown to pieces. And yet the man was still going. He was standing in front of John brimming with life and energy and passion for continuing. Surely, he was not entirely human but contained some element of the supernatural about him.

Sherlock tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “John?”

John straightened his shoulders and looked at him. “I need a hero.”

Sherlock blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m holding out for a hero until the end of the night. And he’s gotta be strong. He’s gotta be fast. And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I need a hero.”

Sherlock took a step towards him tentatively, a hand reaching out to him. “Are… you having some sort of stroke?”

“I’m holding out for a hero until the morning light.”

Sherlock paused. “Is this some sort of joke? I don’t understand.”

“I need a hero.” John whispered.

“Who?”

“You.” John stood quietly, looking at him.

“You’re talking nonsense, John. I’m not a hero. We’ve been over this.”

“You are. Everything you’ve done… you’ve been doing it for me. You’ve been putting yourself through hell for me. And I’ve treated you horribly because of it. I am sorry.” John closed his eyes, his chin falling.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft as he took another step towards John. His hand brushed against John’s shoulder. “You don’t need to apologise. We’re friends. That’s what friends do.”

“You have had, debatably one of the worst lives of anyone I have ever heard of.”

"I..." Sherlock’s head tilted as he considered this. “...perhaps.”

“You have been ridiculed by nearly everyone you’ve ever met, you have lost your home and your reputation, you have been tortured and killed and tortured some more.”

“Thank you for that lovely recap. Not quite killed, John.”

“Your heart stopped. That counts as being killed.”

Sherlock tilted his head in reluctant acquiesce.

“And yet, you’re still standing here in front of me.” John looked up at him again. “Just _vibrating_ with energy and life.”

A small smile quirked Sherlock’s lips. “I have much to live for.”

John nodded and held out his hand. “You’re my hero, Sherlock Holmes.”

Pausing only for a moment, Sherlock wrapped John’s hand in his own, squeezing gently. “And you are mine.”

“I’m being serious.” John shook his head. “Try to be serious for a minute.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand again. “I am. Everything I am now… I am because of you.”

John held tightly onto Sherlock’s hand and cleared his throat. “I love you, you know.”

“I know.”

John’s heart clenched in his chest. “Right.”

“I love you too.” Sherlock took a step closer, so they were only inches away from each other.

John nodded, keeping his gaze on Sherlock’s clavicle and avoiding his eyes. Their hands held on to each other tightly. “I didn’t think… you did this. That you liked people like that.”

“I’m particular about the men I love. Highly selective. There are certain qualifications, you see.” Sherlock bent his head down, so his mouth was right next to John’s ear. “He’s gotta be sure and it’s gotta be soon. And he’s gotta be larger than life.”

John’s eyes widened and he gasped, giving Sherlock a short shove away from him. “You berk, you know that song.”

Sherlock chuckled. “One does not live through the eighties without having experienced it. I find your use for it in reference to, I’m assuming, me, incredibly amusing.”

John shoved at him with his shoulder again. “It’s just the truth. All the shit you’ve gone through in your life. And you still seem to bounce right back.”

Sherlock bent his head and brushed his lips against John’s cheek. “You are all of the good men, gods, streetwise Hercules, and white knights on fiery steeds rolled together. And I hold out for you, always.”

“You’re an idiot.” John ran his hand around to hold the back of Sherlock’s neck and brought their lips together.

Sherlock hummed against his mouth. “Only for you, John. Only for you.”

As they kissed, John closed his eyes and held Sherlock tighter, suddenly feeling strong again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Questions, comments, and concerns are always welcome. Although concerning questions about this fic, I probably have less answers about it than you do.


End file.
